Colours United
by bennybear
Summary: Draco muses about missed chances. Complete. Please note: This little fanfic was written before the publication of the Halfblood Prince, though it deals with events from Harry's first to his seventh year at Hogwarts.


Colours united

by bennybear

"It could have been different. It could have been different if I had found proper words the first time we met. Instead, everything went wrong from the very beginning.

It was in midsummer. My parents had taken me to London in order to get the things together I needed for school. At Madam Malkin's, my mother insisted on silk robes since there could never be anything expensive enough. Silk robes required a lot of work and so my parents left for the shop next door while one of Madame Malkin's assistants set to work on my garments.

A few minutes later a boy came in. He was small and skinny. His shabby clothes were much too large for him. He wore glasses and his raven hair was a mess.

I felt a sudden surge of anxiety since I was, for the first time ever, alone with someone my age, that is, someone other then Crabbe and Goyle: I had to speak to a stranger.

Madam Malkin stood the stranger on a stool next to me, slipped a long robe over his head and began to pin it to the right length.

"Hi," I said trying to hide my nervousness behind a bored, drawling tone of voice, "Hogwarts too?"

"Yes," he confirmed. No word more.

I didwant to talk to him. So far, I had spent most of my days alone in a huge, gloomy house. I had no friends. Even back then I was aware that Crabbe and Goyle had been _ordered_ to serve as my cronies. The phrase "arranged friendship" could be applied, but this would still be a euphemism. The whole arrangement, which was very similar to the one between their fathers and mine, had been set up when I was too young to speak a sentence consisting of more than two words. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were the only company I had – they were regularly brought to the manor on Tuesdays and Fridays – but spending time with them was usually even more boring and tiresome than being alone. That's why I longed for someone who would be there when I felt the wish to chat, to play, or just to fool around. Some special person who would be there for me on his own free will. Well, this is how I see it today. Back then I couldn't put a name to my hazy desires. I didn't know what I craved.

Back to the scene in the shop. I was excited and scared at the same time. Instead of admitting this by saying, for instance, "I'm a bit anxious. You too?" I desperately tried to put on a fake show of self-assurance and superiority. I prattled about my parents buying books or wands.

The boy didn't react.

Suddenly, a brilliant idea struck me – or so I thought. I turned to the subject of Quidditch telling the quiet boy next to me that I was going to drag my parents off to look at racing brooms, that I didn't see why first-years couldn't have their own broomstick, and that I perhaps would bully my father into getting me one which I would smuggle in.

"Do you have your own broom?" I asked.

He said no.

I asked whether he played Quidditch at all and got another no in response.

I didn't see that I was doing things wrong and, consequently, worsened matters further: "Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree." This was blatant bragging.

"Do you know what house you'll be in yet?" I asked. Of course, the stupid question earned me the next no and I hastened to say I'd rather be in Slytherin. This time, there was hardly any response at all.

I simply didn't know how to strike up a conversation with someone who hadn't been told he had better obey my wishes. Of course, this realisation dawned on me much later, _years_ later, not there and then.

There and then, a giant man appeared. He looked sort of savage, his hair as untidy as his enormous beard. With the ice creams that he carried he gesticulated wildly towards the boy beside me. If I hadn't felt ill at ease before, I was doing so now. The boy told me the oversized bloke standing in front of the shop window was working at Hogwarts. Hopefully just a servant and not a teacher I thought with a shudder. But when I uttered the words aloud I managed to make them sound dismissive. I remember how proud I was of this alleged achievement.

"He's the gamekeeper," stated the boy.

This struck a chord. "Yes, exactly! He lives in a hut in the school grounds," I readily repeated what I occasionally had heard from my father. "He gets drunk every now and then, tries to do magic and ends up setting fire to his own bed."

"I think he's brilliant", the boy said rather coldly.

"Do you?" I managed. I was rather close to panic now, because, out of a sudden, a horrible suspicion had taken hold of me: He might be one of these Muggle-borns! If so, I had just got me into trouble: My father had strictly warned me to consort with them. So I hurried to inquire: "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"They're dead," he said.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I replied, not feeling sorry at all, but still slightly panicky. I had to know for sure his parents had been _our_ kind.

"They were a witch and a wizard, if that's what you mean," he said. A wave of relief washed over me. His tone of voice had sounded sort of irritated which led me to the wrong assumption that he, too, felt that wizardry should be kept definitely and exclusively in the old families. I babbled away about how all these would-be wizards shouldn't let be in because they hadn't been brought up to know our ways, and had in some cases not even heard about Hogwarts before they got the letter. Just when I got around to ask about his surname Madam Malkin was done with her pinning and led the boy away.

I hadn't seen the scar.

And I made another mistake afterwards: I told my father about the encounter. This earned me a stern reprimand for my lack of social maturity and long lessons on proper conduct and etiquette. I daresay it was at least partially due to these lessons that things went from bad to worse when we met next.

On the Express to Hogwarts, word was going round that Harry Potter, _the_ Harry Potter, was on the train. Crabbe and Goyle didn't have to urge me much, because I wanted to see the famous boy-who-lived. Also, my father who had known beforehand that we'd be in the same year, had more or less obliged me to try and befriend Potter. For mere scheming and machinations, of course. Nevertheless, I was eager to please my father because I knew from grievous experience that displeasing him was unwise.

Well, Harry Potter turned out to be my acquaintance from the tailor's shop. When this was a bad start already the company he was in did nothing to improve matters. The second boy in the compartment was clearly one of those persons my father had specifically labelled out as non-suitable company for me.

I decided to ignore the misfit for the moment and to introduce myself exactly the way my father had taught me. But the redhead chose to spoil it by provokingly laughing at my name. It might have merely been a cough, but to me, back then, it was a snigger. Irritated, I rounded on him. I told him straight to the face what opinion my family entertained about his one. I didn't bother to be polite or subtle. Quite to the contrary: Maybe I could get rid of him by being rude. Maybe he would run off and leave the field to me. Unfortunately, he didn't leave and I now owed Potter an explanation.

"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter," I told him seriously and warned him as my father had warned me. "You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

But when I held out my hand to shake his, he didn't take it. Instead, he said he could tell the wrong sort of people very well for himself. He turned me down in front of several witnesses: my so-called friends and – worst of all – an enemy! And, just to make my humiliation complete, I felt myself blush.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," I said very slowly in order to give an impression of calmness and composure. Perhaps, I should have made some effort to ease the tension but mitigating was not among the skills I had been trained in. Instead, I resorted, embarrassed as I was, to parroting my father: "Unless you are a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riff-raff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid and it'll rub off on you."

Weasley jumped up and dared me to repeat my words. Foolishly, I let him provoke me again and sneered whether he would fancy a fight. Having Crabbe and Goyle with me made me bold enough to do so. They would take care of any possible physical tackle and like it. They used to fight each other for fun.

Harry suggested, rather firmly, we should leave. But I said no; I wouldn't feel like leaving. Which was the truth. I couldn't leave yet, because my father would learn about the incident. All he had to do was questioning Crabbe. Crabbe was tremendously good at repeating any word that had been said by anyone at any time – usually without the slightest understanding of what they meant.

So, in order to prolong the conversation I added some stupid remark about the sweets lying around in the compartment. Right on cue, Goyle reached towards the Chocolate Frogs next to Weasley. Weasley leapt forward, but before he so much as touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible yell – a rat was hanging off his finger, sharp little teeth sunk deep into his knuckle.

This was more than I could take. I fled the scene without another word. Today, I can admit that. And feel almost good about it. Seven years ago, however, it was a disaster. I kept telling myself that it had been all Weasley's fault. One of the main tenets my father had determinedly inculcated on me was that our family had a natural claim to leadership. People were expected to do as a Malfoy told them. For him, it always worked. The Minister for Magic himself was usually eager to keep my father happy. Therefore, to me, this was the established order of things. These Weasleys, however, were notorious for their insolence and lack of common sense. So, hopefully, my father would accept Weasley's interference as an excuse for my failure.

But there would have been no way to blame on anybody else had I been sorted into the wrong house. I vividly remember how I shouted _Slytherin_ in my mind when I put on the Sorting Hat. My wish was granted at once – which reassured me a little bit. My father had very high expectations for me. I was to live up to my name, what meant: his name. I was to take initiative. I was to prove that I had leading qualities. I was to be top student in my year. I don't have to tell you that I gloriously failed in every respect.

On Potter, however, I didn't give up straight away. I kept trying to get his attention – partially because my father wanted the contact, but also because he was the quiet boy from Madam Malkin's robe shop.

I tried to impress him with my flying abilities. To my shock he flew better than I did though he had claimed he'd never flown before. All I could do was going back down. Or backing down, perhaps. More or less as a result of this flop I dared him to duel me. My plan was that our seconds – Weasley and Crabbe – should take care of each other. Thus, I would finally be able to talk to Potter alone – in the trophy room, at midnight. He wasn't all stupid. He'd probably see reason once I got a chance to explain things to him properly. I had a carefully rehearsed speech in store for him. This time, I was prepared. I wasn't prepared for Filch, tough. He caught Crabbe and me halfway up to the trophy room. Up to today, I do not know for sure whether Potter waited for me long enough to be caught, too, because Crabbe couldn't stop himself telling Filch what we were about to do. But, more likely, Potter left in time assuming that I had chickened out.

The bad thing about this affair was that Potter now most certainly thought I was a coward. And the real bad thing was that this was true.

For a while, I followed him around as often as I managed to give my bodyguards the slip. This way, I discovered that the gamekeeper indulged in some, well, questionable activities. I tried to find out some more. Pretending I wanted to borrow a book I visited Weasley who happened to be in the Hospital wing. Whereas I got no useful information out of him, I got a piece of hard evidence by sheer luck: In the book I borrowed was a letter. I put it somewhere safe and, for once, decided not to tell my father about it. This, at last, was my game. I think, at this point, I still saw it as some sort of game. I was hurt, yes, but only a bit compared to my frustration and despair later on. I was still thoroughly optimistic. I was still convinced to be victorious in the end because this was what Malfoys were supposed to be, weren't they? I didn't intend to do any serious harm to any of the people involved – not even to Charles Weasley who had written the incriminating letter. All I wanted was Potter to realise that he had chosen the _wrong sort_ of friends. I was going to make a point showing him how they got him into trouble. As you can easily guess my plan went awry again. Potter got into trouble all right – and Granger, Longbottom and me along with him – but in an entirely other way than expected. McGonagall believed he had been telling some cock-and-bull story to have _me_ on. Of course, I could have proven Potter wasn't telling lies by producing the letter, but that would have made things severely worse for him and some others. No, I was looking at the bright side: The four of us were going to serve detention together which might present me with a fresh chance to talk to Potter in private. I was actually in good spirits until I found out that we had to patrol the Forbidden Forrest looking for an injured unicorn. I argued with Hagrid but to no avail. He made it perfectly clear that disobedience would get me expelled.

And this is what happened: I walked side by side with Potter for maybe an hour – it seemed to me like ages – without uttering a single word. I was too scared to say anything whatsoever. I feared I'd throw up as soon as I opened my mouth so terrified was I. I guess my imagination peopled the forest with ten times as much dreadful monsters than actually are in there. All the same, there _were_ ghastly shapes lurking in the darkness. Alarming sounds came from everywhere, the sickening smell of the unicorn's blood got richer and richer... Finally, we found the dead animal. And then, out of the shadows, a hooded figure came crawling across a clearing. It reached the unicorn, lowered its head over the wound, and drank its blood. My stomach revolted. I turned and run for it.

I run away from the Terror the name of which braver people than I am never dared to speak aloud. I was twelve, not quite, but nearly, and what else could I have done? Well, I don't know. Grabbing Potter's arm and dragging him away with me might have been an option. I can see this today when I've had plentiful of leisure to think about it. But back then, my legs did do the thinking. Thus, I threw away my last, frail chance for friendship with Potter by leaving him behind.

Time went by and we never got along any better. There _were_ times when I hated him. I have to use this word; there is no point in glossing over it. He had refused me and continued to refuse me. I was hurt; I felt humiliated. So I hated him.

Mostly, however, I hated the people who were close to him. I hated them _because_ they were close to him. They had clearly more than they deserved. They had what I _couldn't get_. I was jealous and raging. And I foolishly believed that diminishing Potter's friends would improvemy position. I had fistfights with Weasley, I harassed Longbottom where I could, I insulted Granger. One black day she slapped me across the face – in front of people! And I had small means to get back on her. Lengthen her teeth to make her look ridiculous? Well, when she returned from Pomfrey she looked better than ever before.

When I got injured due to my own stupidity during Care of Magical Creatures my father found this to be the perfect occasion for throwing the half-giant out of Hogwarts. I didn't know why my father despised this man enough to do me a favour. Nor did I want to. I was full of glee.

By the end of our third year the enmity between Potter and me had become an institution. People could rely on it. Being who we were proved to be an obstacle in itself. Everything he or I said or did inevitably became political. We were never allowed to be just two teenage boys who might or might not get along with each other.

I got older and, very slowly, wiser. In the beginning I just sensed that I was taking the wrong approach to certain things. I watched other students interact with each other: They behaved like I never would – and were successful.

Additionally, there were little incidences that made me think. For instance, I coincidentally overheard my father saying Potter had helped Sirius Black to escape from almost certain capture. Why would he do such a thing? Potter could be quite a fool, yes, but why would he save the criminal who killed – at least indirectly – his parents?

This was the first time I questioned, although only hesitantly, my father's words. There were doubts. Well, initially, they were mere doubtlets. But they had found their way into my mind and there they grew. Little by little.

At long last I saw things I hadn't recognised before: lies, ploys, machinations. They surrounded me. I was involved. I had been involved without knowing about it for years. I realised that I was trapped in a maze of sly schemes. The worst realisation came last: On any way out I would cut my own throat. On some of them even literally.

I wasn't suicidal back then. I was a fourteen and wanted to live – undisturbed if possible. My only option seemed to join the game. Deliberately this time. I was resolved to try and see how far the rules could be bent. While keeping up an unimpeachable facade of hatred and contempt I could convey worthwhile messages like _If I were you, Potter, I shouldn't do this, say that, go there_.

I knew, for instance, precisely who was hidden under the cloaks and masks at the World Quidditch Championship and what they were up to. So I drawled in convincingly mocking tones "I would keep that bushy head down, Granger, unless you want show everybody your knickers." Potter and his friends didn't take this for a warning but for a threat. It worked all the same.

It didn't go always that smooth. When I was about to give away some clue as to what was going to happen after the Dark Lord's rebirth they all took out their wands and rendered me unconscious by hitting me with random curses.

However, sometimes I got my point across quite nicely. Without rising suspicion of bystanders I could yell at Potter: "Hey, I'm a prefect now. I'll be dogging you!" The use of _to dog_ instead of _I will make your life miserable_ wasn't necessary unless I wanted to say something entirely different like _My mother realised that dog on the platform was her cousin_.

This was already in our fifth year. I carefully kept up my reputation as the world's biggest Potter-hater by creating the infamous Quidditch battle song you surely remember. It was harmless compared to other things that were going on at this time, yet effective. Besides, it gained me some esteem in the Slytherin common room – for the first time ever. You rather shouldn't believe that I've ever been very popular there.

I wasn't anymore the altogether blind fool I once had been. Not that this helped me much. My father had ordered me to aid Umbridge in any way I could. Of course, I had to be the very first student who volunteered for her patrolling squads. Of course, I had to be in command.

In the long run, this proved to be a real advantage though. Umbridge loved to strike without prior notice. She loved to catch her opponents unawares. However, I was – even if only for technical reasons – often informed a little bit in advance.

When this stupid oaf was found sticking in a toilet, for example. Umbridge was fat, slow, and short-winded. I could run and so I did. I knew Snape had regular meetings with Potter at this time of day. I had no idea what they were doing but I was sure that Umbridge wasn't to learn about it. I got to Snape's office right before her, flung the door open without bothering to knock and panted my message. Snape, thoroughly startled, hastened to intercept Umbridge on her way down to the dungeons while I delivered to Potter the nasty remark he expected from me about him taking remedy potions. He wasn't suspicious. Nor was Umbridge. She took my behaviour for eagerness to please her. Well, it was. At least partially. I couldn't risk being caught.

I got to know a lot of things. I could make sure that some of them remained the secrets they were. I took care to patrol the seventh floor myself when Potter and his fellow conspirators held their regular gatherings. I managed to conceal these illegal activities from Umbridge till the day on which one of the girls chose to betray her comrades. There was no chance for me to delay Umbridge. All I could do was run and try to reach the Room of Requirement first. To my surprise, I got there second. Someone had already warned them. They were leaving in a hurry. I hid myself in a niche beneath an ugly dragon-shaped vase and watched Potter's friends scurry away. He went – brave and noble as always – last. Umbridge came in exactly the right moment to spot him. If I didn't want to get myself into serious difficulties I had no choice but to stop him. I used a simple tripping hex and a few spiteful words to make it sound picture perfect. He would wriggle his way out of trouble as usual and everybody else was safely away.

Unfortunately, I didn't know that Dumbledore's Army was foolish enough to leave behind a written list of members to be found by Parkinson. Well, Dumbledore took the blame for Harry and that left Umbridge in charge.

And _me_, somehow. Lieutenant of the Inquisitorial Squad. I didn't do what I was expected to do; I _over-did_ it. I sized the very first opportunity to make excessive use of the power with which she had bestowed me. I took points off Gryffindor for the most outrageous reasons. _Potter, I don't like you – five points off for this. Mudblood, you defile the air I breathe with your presence – ten off_. I went as far as to dock points for Weasley having his shirt not tucked properly in. There was no joy in it, none at all, but I figured this would be a way to demonstrate both the infamy and preposterousness of Umbridge's policy, a way to expose her. It didn't work, however. She still took my behaviour for zeal and everybody else for yet another proof of my inborn maliciousness.

Umbridge met with furtive, cunning resistance wherever she went. Her opponents were surprisingly successful. She could never put her finger to the originator of the pranks; things eluded her as soon as she tried to get a grip on them. She never found the source of the mysterious maladies continually occurring during her lessons. She didn't even notice how the Quaffle was bewitched during the short interruption that ensued due to Roger Davies' minor injury in the final match of the Quidditch season, Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. Standing two feet away from both the ball and the wrongdoer she failed to see what was happening, because she was just too busy arguing that Davies' bleeding nose had been caused by one of the unduly rough Gryffindor beaters with a Bludger while everybody around her steadfastly maintained that Davies had accidentally collided with Chang's broomstick.

By the way, the applied spell was meticulously tuned. It allowed a certain person to catch the Quaffle six out of seven times no matter how slow or clumsily said person would act. Thus, Gryffindor won. It was exactly what people needed to take heart again against the merciless power that was weighing them down.

How merciless the wielder of this absolute power could be shocked even me. One day near the end of the year, I witnessed how Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor and Acting Headmistress of Hogwarts at this time, threatened to inflict the Cruciatus Curse on a student."

Malfoy paused, his gaze firmly on Umbridge. Next to her, Cornelius Fudge shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was back in office – along with a fair number of other incompetent bureaucrats, who had carefully kept their heads down during the civil war. As soon as the last fight was over, they had crept out of their hiding-holes and taken back all the positions, which they had once occupied. In fact, even better ones. They'd had little trouble doing so since about two-thirds of the Resistance were dead. Shacklebolt, for instance, and old Madeye Moody. Tonks had headed the Auror Department for a short while until Fudge replaced her with somebody more reliable – Percy Weasley. This had been a real blow for Ron, almost worse than Charlie's death or the grave state of health his father was in. Arthur Weasley was still in St Mungo's and there was little hope that he would ever get out again.

The worst was the de-facto-loss of Albus Dumbledore. He wasn't dead, not _yet_, but paralysed from the neck downward and only with outermost effort able to mumble a few barely audible syllables. Some found he would be better off if he had died; some others believed that there was still the hope of recovery.

In short, those who had survived were too weak or too crippled, too old or too young to oppose in any noteworthy extent the former leader's return to political power.

"I didn't see the curse performed, no, but I heard the first syllable pronounced," Malfoy continued. "I am prepared to give testimony in court albeit I seriously doubt there will be any legal action against this witch soon.

Let me resume. On this day at the end of our fifth year Umbridge had caught two students in the act of breaking into her office. It wasn't entirely clear what they had attempted. Umbridge was livid and ordered the Inquisitorial Squad to arrest a few more students whom she deemed to be in league with the already caught miscreants. When she failed to get any answers from them she resorted to threats and intimidation. She was halfway through the Cruciatus Spell when one of the girls – one who probably figured that anybody who was unscrupulous enough to send Dementors after teenagers wouldn't hesitate to use an Unforgivable Curse on unarmed students – made her stop by crying out loud she would confess whatever Umbridge wished to hear. The girl even promised to reveal some piece of evidence. Umbridge could hardly wait to see it and left instantly with said girl and another of the captives. Shortly after their departure, Miss Ginger Weasley got me with a Bat Bogey Hex. The others followed suit. A couple of Stunners, a Disarming Charm, Longbottom brought off an interesting little Impediment Jinx, and they were out and away. I made no move to prevent them from escaping.

Some might wonder why I behaved like I did. I have to disappoint anybody who awaits any political statement or moral consideration. No, my reasons were personal. It is often maintained that personal was not the same as important. Well, I'm Slytherin. I'm selfish. To me, personal is _exactly_ the same as important.

You see I had attended this bloody school for almost five whole years by then and hadn't found a single friend. Yet, my dreams and hopes hadn't altogether perished. I had always been able to re-kindle them drawing fuel – strange as it might seem – from the mere presence of Gryffindor's Golden Boy. Potter had, all the ordeals he had been put through notwithstanding, managed to retain some of his intrinsic charm, of this unique mixture of ignorance, innocence and honesty that makes it so easy for people to like him. Looking at him I could still see the introvert boy I met at Madam Malkin's. I could and I did. I indulged in a secret vice of mine, a passion that would seem too far-fetched, too unlikely to anyone scrutinising my habits. I had always kept it carefully hidden not only from my father but also from everybody else. It was _mine_."

He paused for a moment to give his audience time to digest his words.

"The summer following our fifth year was hell. I had to learn that Evil had a name, and a face, and a voice. A terrible voice I still hear in my nightmares. The irony is that I had really been looking forward to these holidays. My father was away, so I would be able to breathe more freely for a while. But when I got home I encountered somebody whose viciousness made my father look like an amiable and harmless softie. Bellatrix Lestrange would punish me for being ten seconds late for dinner. She would punish me for walking the stairs too fast, or too slow, or too noisily. She punished me for existing. In her opinion, my father had messed up the robbery at the Ministry. Since she couldn't have a go at him she took it out on me. And my mother did raise neither her voice nor a finger to help me. Maybe she was scared, too, because her sister knew only one word for punishment – _Crucio_.

However, as much as Bellatrix Lestrange revelled in torturing she loved to rant. She could boast about her unsavoury activities for hours. I didn't have to spy on her; she_ made_ _me listen_.

I learned, among other things, how the remaining followers of the Dark Lord had discovered sixteen years previous Bartemius Crouch junior to be a scout, how they'd forced him to aid them, and how the young man had been, in the end, betrayed by the Ministry officials who'd sent him out in the first place – a dismal story she would laugh about fiendishly all day.

I learned that I was to be considered a slightly inferior breed because my father's bloodline wasn't quite as pure as the one of the Black family – my mother was alternately pitied or scolded for marrying Lucius Malfoy.

I also learned the truth about Sirius Black. At this point I realised why Potter had reacted so differently when I had last attempted to warn him of dangers to come. To me, it was crystal clear that there would be revenge for sending my father to Azkaban. But Potter just shrugged it off. He didn't take me very serious anymore. My attempts to harass him had barely an effect. I suppose there is only so much you can do to a man without making him either impervious to further blows or run amok. Of course, I cannot speak for Potter but I know what happened to me.

By late July, Bellatrix Black had – rather unwisely – unveiled a fair amount of her Master's plans to me. All of them involved killing Potter. As I said before, my motives were personal. They didn't have to do with politics. Wiping out Potter would be like wiping out the last remnants of my hopes and dreams. Admittedly, what I had left was chiefly the memory of chances I'd missed. But still... I couldn't let her triumph.

Her inexhaustible malice had pushed me beyond the point where fear and despair become courage again. Deprived of any way to run probably the weakest creature will bite. I could at least muster as much courage as to write a letter, a very special birthday letter. I listed every detail I knew taking care to put them in the form of foul threats: _You will suffer like this, Potter. Your beloved friends will be smitten like that._ Despite the risk I was running I signed that letter. I had to. There are things you _have_ to do and there are things you have to_ do_ – the first for staying alive and the latter for making this live worth living – and then there are those instances when both become the same. It was getting back at Bellatrix Lestrange or ceasing to exist. I said I felt courageous. Maybe this is a bit misleading. What I felt was wrath, red-hot rage. Like nobody and nothing ever before, my aunt had shown me the futility of my existence.

I fed the owl a carefully measured amount of slow-working poison. The bird had to reach Potter, but mustn't ever come back.

The ensuing events indicated that my message was met with profound mistrust. Later on, however, probably when it had become obvious that the letter wasn't meant to deceive, someone read it very thoroughly. At least, this is what I imagine.

I will not speak of the past twelve months tonight. The memory is still too fresh and, for many of us, too sorrowful. Words aren't necessary, too, since none of you can avoid noting the empty seats.

I'd like you to know that finding someone to deliver the regular speech at this Graduation Ceremony turned out to be a bit difficult. Two thirds of the former Hogwarts staff are dead or in no condition to address an audience. McGonagall is so bitter nobody wants to hear her speak. Being a double agent for almost two decades has manoeuvred Snape into a tight corner. No one seems to be inclined to trust him any further. Handing the task to Trelawney would result in not only the past being a terrible place but also in cramming the future with bad omens.

Who was left? I know that Remus Lupin volunteered, but the Ministry took quickly care of that by picking a full-moon night for the celebration. Lupin has little left to lose, wherefore it was feared that he might bring up topics inappropriate for the occasion.

Potter who was approached with the plea to say a few words refused – probably a wise move on his part, because he's never been much of a speaker. Besides, the celebrated Harry Potter doing the Minister for Magic a favour could have been mistaken for a hint of future policies.

In the end, someone remembered an old tradition according to which the top student of the year has the honour to address his or her fellow graduates during the ceremony. This seemed the safest option. I trust that they who allowed this year's second-best student – since a certain Gryffindor chair is only covered with an empty witch's hat – to speak tonight have no cause to regret their decision. Their request for a strictly personal speech met splendidly with my intentions. I had something to say that was very personal: the tale of a foolish boy who was not able – in seven long years – to make friends with somebody.

The things I did were stupid and, sometimes, downright wicked. There is no point in evading the truth; you all know how I behaved – mean, arrogant, biased. I came here burdened with a cartload of prejudices and it took me too long to realise that they deserved questioning. It took me too long to realise what I really wanted and how I could have achieved it. But let this speech despite of all evidence to the contrary be one of hope. Let us hope that in fifteen year's time when a new generation dwells in this castle things will be different. Let us hope the children living then won't have been told beforehand by their parents, which house to be in, whom to talk to, and whom to shun. I cannot help thinking, again and again, that matters might have been different – even if only for me – when I had found proper words the first time I met a shy boy at a tailor's shop. It was up to me and I failed.

It is up to us now either to make a difference or to watch things taking their usual course. Please, take a quiet moment to consider what our late fellow students, those ill-fated ones who didn't live to see their graduation, would want us to do. I do not know whether the right word at the right time can change history. But I thought it was worth trying. Thanks for listening."

Malfoy stepped off the makeshift dais. He still walked with a limp. What exactly had happened nobody really knew. A party of foreign rescue workers who had aided the Resistance during the final battles had pulled him out of the ruins of a Death Eater fortress. Since they didn't recognise his face and couldn't find any trace of a Dark Mark on his forearm they took the severely injured, unconscious young man to one of the secret hospitals where he was – to some extent, at least – nursed back to health.

There was absolute silence as Malfoy walked over to the half empty Slytherin rows. Nobody clapped their hands. McGonagall's mouth was pressed so tight that it had completely disappeared from her face. Fudge, in the front row, was fuming; Umbridge gave the impression of being dangerously close to a heart attack. Dumbledore, seated in a wooden wheel chair, was the only one who looked approving.

Malfoy had reached the chairs reserved for the Slytherins. There was still no applause. People shifted uneasily in their seats looking here and looking there, hoping for someone to give them a cue. Harry slowly raised his hands. As always, he thought. Everyone was hiding in the crowd waiting for the valiant hero to save the day. He had never wanted to be a fucking hero. And he wouldn't have been one, he wouldn't have survived that dreadful day of betrayal when he got captured by Death Eaters, he wouldn't have been able to flee from their stronghold, and, subsequently, he would never have had a chance to conquer Voldemort if not... if not his wand, his own precious wand of Holly and Phoenix feather, had been left behind in his cell. Up until now he had believed in a blunder made by his captors. But there had been no mistake. The wand had been put on the table on purpose. And now he knew who did it.

Instead of clapping his hands he got to his feet and took out his treasured wand. With one single flick of it he brought down all four house banners. With a second flip he sliced them into stripes. A third, and the shreds became an intertwined tangle. Then, with a wide, sweeping movement he put them back on the wall – a red-green-yellow-blue-coloured patchwork of ancient fabric, finally united, almost fused.

"Sorry folks," he said. "When it comes to finding proper words, I'm definitely even worse than Malfoy."

The end


End file.
